


furor and envy

by Icej



Series: Sharing Tongues [2]
Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Birds, Clan Culture, Clan life, Elders, Gen, Rituals, SkyClan (Warriors), robins, wordbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 06:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19740118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icej/pseuds/Icej
Summary: “I wonder—if not under the red oak, then where did you go?”





	furor and envy

**Author's Note:**

> Two elders reminisce.

i.

White-eye felt her friend’s tongue rasp across her ear and closed her eye. She had not wanted a wash, but she didn’t mind one either. Besides, it would be too much trouble to protest… Goldenstorm said and did what she liked. So the grooming stretched on, the lapping tongue smoothing tangles around her shoulders and dislodging brown cedar needles from her back. At the insistence of a feverish nose, White-eye rolled onto the damp grass and let the tongue rasp across her stomach, around the pink flesh of her tits. 

When it was done, the elder sighed and cracked her eye open. Her friend was watching her, yellow gaze bright even against the overcast sky. Goldenstorm often stared at others—she could outstare any cat—but White-eye had never minded. 

“Prey has been running well,” her friend said, and White-eye blinked in assent. 

“But it’s quite chilly,” continued Goldenstorm, tail flicking. “I don’t remember it being so chilly last Leaf-fall…”

“Perhaps this bout of cold will not last,” suggested White-eye in a meek voice. Though she had not left camp to see for herself, she had heard the pears had not yet fallen off the trees at the border. There may still be a few days of warmth to be had once the clouds cleared.

Her friend did not reply, and they lay in silence. There was indeed a damp chill in the air, soaking their fur and bones and sinking into the mossy ground. The stream that curved across the camp lapped at its earthen bounds, disturbing spiky brooklimes. The lichens hanging from the pine and cedar trees overhead were laden with the day’s rain. All the colors of the camp seemed dull: the bramble berries had lost their luster and the green needles of the juniper tree had blackened. But White-eye didn’t dislike the weather. She had always liked the cold seasons, when insects fell quiet and the forest went to sleep.

As they watched, a patrol returned to camp, making their way through the woven ferns and brambles of the border wall. The cats’ jaws were laden with prey. White-eye supposed that these were the warriors she had heard depart from camp earlier, as she was dozing in the elders’ ferns. She noted that the experienced Dustfoot had a limp and that Twiteclaw was lashing her tail, and wondered at that.

The last of the cats was Goldenstorm’s youngest, Larchfur. She caught sight of the two elders and veered off to join them, tail held high. Her paws muddy and her tawny pelt matted with pine needles, but she seemed cheery, and chirped when setting her prey down before the two old cats. White-eye squinted. A swallow lay before her, its white throat stained with mud. 

She tried to think of a blessing for the bird while Goldenstorm and her daughter exchanged news. Had there not been a poet? And had that poet once not said: “bless the swallow, for on their wings they carry the sun, and with every heartbeat, too swift to count”… The old cat struggled to recall the end of the verse, feeling disappointment like the bitter taste of brooklime in her mouth. She had once known the words used to bless all the birds found in Skyclan territory, but now struggled to remember a single rhyme. 

“These are probably the last of the season,” murmured Goldenstorm when they were left alone. She bit at the bird’s orange head.

“They might stay a while more,” suggested White-eye. “I’ve always wondered where it is they go in Leaf-fall,” she added in a softer voice, remembering the poet’s words.

Goldenstorm snorted. “Probably to warmer lands.”

“I suppose so,” said the white elder, delicately biting at the swallow’s chest, seeking its little heart.

Goldenstorm worked at the bird’s head, cracking its skull between her teeth, sucking at its eyeballs. She stayed occupied thus for a few minutes, but soon lashed her tail. 

“We were much younger than our girls are, when we caught our first swallow. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” assented White-eye. “Browntail was so pleased when we brought them back to her. She was about to kit.”

The white elder closed her eyes in retrospect. They had been friends, all their lives. They had spent kithood daring each other to sneak out of camp, and had trained together as apprentices under stern mentors. Each one thought they understood the other well. Goldenstorm had strong opinions on her friend— indeed, she held categorical views on every cat in living memory, and once her opinion of someone was formed, she would never change her mind. So Goldenstorm thought she knew who her friend was, or more specifically who she was not. “White-eye isn’t very smart,” she would tell herself every so often, “and she’s not very ambitious or outspoken. She’s not the sort to enjoy fighting. She doesn’t concern herself with things of importance.”

White-eye’s view of her friend was not composed of negative affirmations but of memories. She remembered how Goldenkit had unsheathed her claws during a rough play session and had angered their mothers. She could still recall that Goldenpaw would dare her to venture among Shadowclan pines, again and again until one Greenleaf when they almost collided into a patrol. And the fights she would pick at Gatherings! To anyone who asked, White-eye would say: “Goldenstorm always was a trouble-maker… she wouldn’t take no for an answer.” However, what she remembered most vividly was that Goldenstorm had been extremely dashing as a young warrior—how she stood out among their grey and brown clanmates! She looked as though the sun had suffused every hair of her fur. It had not surprised White-eye when she made deputy—her friend was brilliant.

A few moons later, both of them moved in the nursery. Of course, Goldenstorm was always out on some business or other, still very involved in organizing clan life, and White-eye—Whiteflower at the time—had nothing much to do. They gave birth not many sunrises apart, and both lost all but one of their kits, and this drew them closer together. When Goldenstorm went out to patrol, White-eye fed her friend’s daughter, and that was that. She was there when the kits’ ears unfolded, almost at the same time, and when they opened their eyes; but Goldenstorm and her mate were present for the first-sighting-of-a-bird. White-eye’s daughter, Cloudkit, had spotted a nightingale as the sun was dawning, which was considered a very good omen by the medicine-cat. Robinkit had sighted her namesake. 

Goldenstorm only half-remembered that night, because she did not like to dwell on what displeased her. What she could recall from the time was that no tom ever seemed to visit White-eye in the nursery… She had often wondered at that, but a secret sense of superiority held her back from enquiring as to the father of Cloudkit. She now regretted not asking—well, perhaps she had asked, or had hinted at wanting to know, but White-eye had demured… she was not one to share her secrets. In any case, Goldenstorm had been busy with deputy duties, and busy with her mate, who often came to visit her. Of course, he also checked in on White-eye, but Goldenstorm drew satisfaction in knowing that it was only out of obligation—because the white queen often fed both Cloudkit and Robinkit, it was only polite to bring her prey.

Larchface had been the most handsome tom of the clan, and she loved that he was hers. He’d never taken any other mate, Goldenstorm had made sure of that. And he’d been very present with their two daughters in a way that she could not. Really, she had picked the ideal mate; and Whiteflower, despite her beautiful fur and her sweetness and soft voice, had been all alone… Perhaps this had cured Goldenstorm of her envy, for a while. Or perhaps there was no curing a lifetime of habit—perhaps the jealousy had only taken the form of a tiny white kit.

Twilight slowly darkened the world and the clan began to awaken, emerging from the shadows. Warriors talked among themselves in low voices. Apprentices peered at the two elders and at their prey, then hurried to the fresh-kill pile, evidently relieved they did not have to fulfill their obligation to feed the two old cats. After a time, a golden warrior padded to the brooklimes and called the clan to attention. She asked senior warriors to report the day’s activities and began to sort out patrols, her cheerful mews ringing among the pines. White-eye watched Goldenstorm watch her. Robinfang was the old queen’s eldest daughter, and had made deputy like her mother. 

As the cats dispersed, Goldenstorm let out a rusty purr. “Robinfang certainly knows her way around organizing patrols. I’m curious to see how she’ll deal with the issue of Twiteclaw…” 

White-eye held back from asking what she meant, thinking it impolite to meddle. Goldenstorm was kept aware of all the going-ons in the clan by her daughter, and she often hinted at things she knew, doubtless hoping that White-eye would show some interest. But the white elder really did not like to gossip, refusing to ask even her own kit for news. 

So she kept quiet and averted her gaze. Two patrols were leaving camp, now, the first led by Robinfang. There was certainly something about the deputy—she was a good warrior, hardworking, and pretty. In fact, both the sisters had a sweet disposition, and could endear themselves to any cat. White-eye certainly doted on them, out of a lifetime of habit, but mostly because she appreciated their company. However, for all their gifts and beauty, the daughters had not inherited their mother’s—well, their mother’s brilliance. Yes, there was a spark in the mother that White-eye had never found in the daughters. Goldenstorm had been something else altogether. Sometimes White-eye thought her friend was disappointed, much like she had been on the night-of-the-first-sighting. 

Robinfang had made deputy, like her mother… but White-eye’s daughter had become leader.

ii. 

“Larchfur has been quite close with Ternpelt, you know,” suddenly said Goldenstorm. 

“A fine match,” purred White-eye. She, too, had noticed the beautiful feathers exchanged by the warriors, and how they had taken to washing each other.

“They must be taking trips to the red oak.” Goldenstorm trilled, both in pleasure and frustration at the time gone by. “Do you remember? No, I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there—too _riské_ for you… But all the young lovers at the time would go and do the deed under that tree, you know. I once walked in on Cedarcloud as he was climbing on Thrushstar!”

White-eye flattened her ears, not wanting to hear more salacious details about their former leader. She wished that Goldenstorm might not be so blunt, as least just this once. Some things were meant to be private.

“Please,” she mewed softly.

“Ha! How very like you to be shocked. I’ve said nothing wrong. Enjoying your mate’s company is perfectly natural.” 

Goldenstorm nonetheless fell silent, yellow eyes searching the shadows. White-eye tucked her paws under her, enjoying the quiet moment and the empty camp. The cloud layer above the pines was beginning to crack, and stars shone from every fissure. The grey camp was turning silver.

“Besides,” said Goldenstorm in a low voice, causing her companion to prick her ears, “besides, you’ve kitted. You’re well acquainted with the greater mysteries of life.”

White-eye did not comment.

“I wonder—if not under the red oak, then where did you go?”

The question hung in the nocturnal silence for a long time. Goldenstorm began to wonder if she had not offended her friend. Certainly, White-eye would not reply—she did not expect her to reply, had not expected her to when asking the question. Perhaps she’d enquired in jest, or maybe out of a long buried fear, but not because she was hoping for an answer. And so she was startled when White-eye said, faintly: “You’re wrong. I did go to the red oak.”

Goldenstorm pricked her ears and turned her stare on the small white elder. She felt something welling up inside her—an ugly kind of feeling… “And who did you go with?”

White-eye flicked her tail. “No-one. I went alone, out of curiosity, I suppose. I wanted to know what everyone was on about.”

“Liar.”

There was a stricken silence. “I—“ faltered White-eye.

 _“Shut up!”_ spat Goldenstorm. “Shut up! I know why you went and with whom! Don’t you understand? I followed you.”

“You did?” echoed White-eye, looking ill.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

The white elder bowed her head. She looked physically diminished—as if she’d taken a blow to the face—and her tail was trembling. At the sight, Goldenstorm felt another stab of rage. All these moons, she’d held on to the memory of that night… what a simpleton… she’d thought she could get away with it, hadn’t she?

“Larchface was my mate,” she hissed. “You knew that.”

“Yes… I know,” said White-eye in a small voice. “I had no excuse.”

Goldenstorm snorted. “And yet you went.”

“Yes.”

For a long time they said nothing. The clouds above cleared, and the stars glimmered faintly above the cedar trees, as unreachable as that long-forgotten night. “It used to make me laugh,” suddenly said Goldenstorm. “Imagining you under the red oak, jumping at every sound, and oh so embarrassed to be waiting at the lovers’ tree… and all the while, Larchface was patrolling on the opposite side of the territory… I’d just made deputy, you know. I assigned him that patrol because I knew—I knew you’d be waiting under the red oak, all alone.”

At these words, White-eye turned toward her companion, seeming puzzled. “But I didn’t wait,” she mewed slowly. “I wasn’t alone. He came… he’d arranged everything with his patrol.”

Goldenstorm sprang up and snarled. “Larchface came? He came to see you? You’re lying!”

But White-eye only seemed to grow more confused. “Of course he came—he knew I’d be there.”

“He knew?”

“I told him I would be,” explained the white elder. “I told him that day… I invited him to come with me.”

“You did,” echoed Goldenstorm, feeling faint. “Of course you did.” She had never expected White-eye to be so daring—never expected her to actually invite him… Goldenstorm had planned everything—she knew that White-eye was mooning over Larchface, and had hinted that he would be waiting under the red oak at half-moon… she’d presumed that White-eye would go and wait, and give up on Larchface after being stood up… She’d never thought that White-eye would have the guts to actually invite him to the lovers’ tree.

“Well,” she murmured. “You had him for one night. I had him for moons.” 

White-eye again was silent. At length, she stood up, seeming more sore and exhausted than she had ever been. “I had Cloudstar,” she said, and began padding to the elders’ ferns.

**Author's Note:**

> The structure and plot of this one-shot are modeled Edith Warton’s amazing short story, “Roman Fever”. 
> 
> Wharton, Edith. "Roman Fever." Roman Fever and Other Stories. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1964. 9 - 24.


End file.
